Picture Perfect
by SandraTx
Summary: Alfred and Jessica Fletcher ("Murder, She Wrote") work together to solve a perplexing murder case.
1. To the Rescue!

Disclaimer: All of these characters belong to someone else, not me. I promise to put them back when I'm done with them. 

  


** Picture Perfect  
By SandraTX**  
(based on a screenplay by Jackson Gillis) 

~~ Chapter 1 ~~ 

**Friday Afternoon**

Alfred Pennyworth blinked slightly as he stepped out into the bright afternoon sunshine. The crisp weather and clear sky made quite a contrast with the dark, slightly dingy interior of the Wayne clinic's storeroom. He surreptitiously pulled his shoulders back to stretch them after a long morning of unloading, checking, and putting up supplies in the small clinic. As he walked down the street to retrieve his car, he was surprised to see a well-dressed woman walking ahead of him. Her attire was in sharp contrast to the run-down buildings around her. His surprise turned to dismay as two young street toughs also spotted her. He quickened his steps. 

"Listen, lady, just give us yer cash, or I'm gonna have ta take it from you th' hard way!" 

As he got closer, Alfred could just barely hear the woman's reply. She sounded tense but not terrified. 

"I'm sorry, young man, but I'm afraid I don't have very much cash on me. You would be making a lot of trouble for yourself for not much reward. Why don't you let me pass, and we'll just forget all about this?" 

One teenager positioned himself in front of her, while the other stood slightly behind her and to the side. They were concentrating on her, which allowed Alfred to get close enough to see that the would-be muggers were armed with knives. He readied his umbrella and jogged forward. 

**WHAM** 

Alfred slammed his steel-shafted umbrella against the back of the rear thug's knees, dropping him to the ground. He followed up with a blow to the teen's head, stunning him, and turned to attack the other thug. The woman had taken advantage of the disturbance to bash the head of the teen in front of her with her purse. Although he was still conscious, he was dazed enough for Alfred to kick the knife from his hand and an additional hit with the umbrella caused him to join his friend in unconsciousness. 

"Oh, thank you!" the woman exclaimed. "I wasn't sure how I was going to get out of this mess!" 

Alfred smiled grimly. "You are quite welcome, madam, but I would suggest we leave here as quickly as possible before they regain consciousness." 

"Shouldn't we call the police?" 

"I would like to, but I'm afraid we have no way of securing these … persons until the authorities arrive, and they might have friends lurking about. I have a car nearby." He led her around the building. "My name is Alfred Pennyworth, by the way." 

She hung back a little, obviously not completely sure she could trust him. "Thank you again, Mr. Pennyworth, but if you could just direct me to a bus stop or cab, I'll be fine." 

Alfred stopped and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I can certainly understand your caution, madam. Unfortunately, this street is not on a bus route, and cabs rarely venture here. In any event, I believe we would be safer near my car than standing out here in the open." 

He started walking again and was pleased to see her follow him this time. She was a trim-looking woman of medium height, probably in her late fifties, if he was any judge. She had short, reddish-gold hair with just a few touches of gray and bright, piercing blue eyes. He also noticed that she did not wear a wedding ring. 

"Would you mind telling me how you ended up here? Were you looking for someplace in particular?" he asked gently. 

She smiled ruefully in return. "I'll be honest and say it was my own fault for not paying attention. I'm visiting a friend here in Gotham on a combination business/personal trip. I had some errands to run downtown, and I didn't really pay attention to where my friend's house was in relation to where I was going. When I finished, I noticed on the bus map that I was only two blocks away from my friend's street … at least, what I _thought_ was my friend's street!" She sighed. 

"So you decided not to wait for the bus, but to walk instead," Alfred finished. 

"Exactly." 

They arrived at the nondescript sedan Alfred used for his trips to the clinic. He stood next to the car as an idea occurred to him. 

"Since we were on Royal, I would assume then, that your friend lives on North Royal Lane?" At her nod, he continued, "By any chance, does your friend employ any servants? A housekeeper or butler, perhaps?" Most of the houses on North Royal were of the multi-story, multi-room, urban mansion type. Bruce Wayne was an oft-invited guest to these houses, so Alfred was reasonably acquainted with almost all of the staffs. If he was lucky … 

"Why yes, she employs a butler," the woman replied. 

Alfred pulled out his cell phone and handed it to her. "Let's try this: call your friend's house and ask the butler if he would consider me an acceptable person to escort you home. If he doesn't, you'll at least be able to have him send someone to pick you up." 

He could see that the idea appealed to her, so she dialed. 

"Franklin? Yes, this is Mrs. Fletcher. A gentleman named Alfred Pennyworth has offered to take me back to the house, and he thought you might be acquainted with him? … You are? … Yes, that sounds like this gentleman. Thank you very much, Franklin. Good-bye." 

She handed the phone back to Alfred and smiled. "You certainly come highly recommended, Mr. Pennyworth! Franklin said you would take good care of me." 

Alfred opened her car door and handed her in. "I will certainly do my best, Mrs. Fletcher. I assume you are staying at Mrs. Taylor's?" 

"That's right," she laughed delightedly. "Very good! Please, call me Jessica, though." 

Alfred closed her car door and experienced a sudden epiphany. Sliding into the driver's seat, he asked, "Forgive me if I presume too much, but would you also happen to be J.B. Fletcher the mystery writer?" 

"Why, yes, I am!" 

~~~~~~~~~~

"Christine, are you absolutely clear on what you have to do tomorrow night?" 

"Are you sure we have to do this?" 

"Baby, I've told you before – you deserve the best, and the only way I can give that to you is to get what's rightfully mine. Now remember, you _have_ to meet me no later than 10:45 and make sure no one sees you." 

"And then we'll be together?" 

"Of course, we will, sweetheart. I promise." 

~~ End Part 1 ~~

  


Author's note: Yes, this is Jessica (J.B.) Fletcher from _Murder, She Wrote_, created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson, and William Link. The plot for this story is adapted from a screenplay by Jackson Gillis for _Columbo_ (also created by Levinson and Link) called "Suitable for Framing". 


	2. Stepping Out

~~ Chapter 2 ~~ 

**Saturday Evening**

Alfred found himself whistling as he knotted his tie. He still could not believe that Jessica Fletcher had agreed to his impulsive invitation the previous afternoon. To be honest, he was not quite sure who was more surprised: himself, that she had accepted with what seemed like genuine pleasure, or his employer, Bruce Wayne, when Alfred informed him that he would have to fend for himself that evening. 

Alfred managed to secure dinner reservations at one of his favorite Italian restaurants as well as good seats for the Gotham Symphony's "Pops" series. His only problem had been remembering to do everything in his own name instead of Bruce's. Perhaps Dick was right – maybe he really _should_ get out more. 

He pulled on his jacket and gave himself a final inspection in the mirror, making sure everything was just as it should be. He nodded in satisfaction, and in a moment of whimsy, saluted the cheerful reflection before him. 

Going downstairs, he was unsurprised to see Bruce waiting for him. His ostensible employer had an unusual expression on his face, part concern and part pique. 

"How much do you know about this Jessica Fletcher?" 

Ah, Bat-paranoia – Alfred realized he should have been prepared for this reaction. 

"You mean, aside from her being a famous author, whose picture is on the back cover of each of her books, and who has a large and growing fan club?" 

Bruce snorted. "Yes, aside from that. What's she doing in Gotham City?" 

"According to both her and Miss Barbara, she is in town to do a book signing and to visit some friends. In fact, Miss Barbara saw her earlier yesterday to get her autograph." 

"Barbara reads that sort of stuff?" Bruce asked somewhat disdainfully. 

"They are _very_ good mysteries, Master Bruce," he chided. "Barbara first began reading them when she still worked as a librarian. She shared them with me because they are written more in the British style than in the American detective genre. I quite enjoy them." 

"And you're going out with her." 

"Yes. I'm sorry if you find it suspicious that someone would wish to go out for an evening with me, sir." 

Bruce ducked his head shamefacedly. "It's not that, Alfred! I just … worry." 

"I know," Alfred replied gently. "Everything's going to be all right." He then smiled. "But not if I keep the lady waiting! I must be going." 

Bruce gave Alfred one of his half-smiles and walked him out the door to the garage. The smile became an outright grin when he saw the car Alfred was going to take: a black 1957 Jaguar XK140 coupe. 

"It's about time you had a good occasion to take that car out! I've been tempted to steal it for a few joy rides myself." 

"I suppose the car cannot help being a corrupting influence, considering its previous owner," Alfred replied with a smile, remembering the first time he saw it – on one of the Batmobile's cameras, being driven by Catwoman as she tried to escape. Even though the Batmobile was one of the most advanced vehicles ever built, and the Jaguar was almost fifty years old, Catwoman would have gotten away if not for Batman's greater driving skill. Alfred had been captivated; the car's lines were almost sensuously curved, conveying both power and elegance. When the car came up in a subsequent police auction, Alfred knew he had to buy it. Despite Bruce's teasing, he did drive it periodically. It just was not the sort of car one drove to buy groceries. He hoped Jessica would not think it too ostentatious. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Brad Ellington took a deep breath, stiffened his spine, and opened the elaborate entry door. A quick glance at the alarm panel on the wall confirmed that no one had set the alarm for the evening. Good. Faint sounds of piano music filtered out into the hallway from the music room, and Ellington walked toward the sound. Tchaikovsky. The old man was pretending to be Van Cliburn again. He winced as the pianist hit an extremely sour note. Blessed silence followed. 

Ellington supposed he could not put off the moment any further. He opened the door, walked into the music room, and saw his uncle seated at the grand piano staring at the music in front of him. Montgomery Taylor looked up at the intrusion and smiled. 

Ellington did not smile back but instead pulled out a gun. Taylor gasped in shock and lurched to his feet. Before he could say anything, Ellington took aim and fired. Taylor collapsed onto the floor. Brad watched to be sure his aim had been accurate, and after a few minutes, Taylor became still. Brad felt along the old man's neck for a pulse; there was none. Time to work. 

His uncle never used electric blankets, but Brad knew some were kept upstairs in case a guest ever needed one.  After digging it out of the linen closet, he wrapped a trash bag around his uncle's torso, and then covered the body with the blanket and turned it on. That taken care of, he began to set his stage. 

He entered his uncle's office and began throwing things about. He made sure to open up the desk drawer where his uncle's gun was usually kept. From the office, he walked toward the back of the house, occasionally pulling pictures off the wall as he went until he had a large stack. When he reached the french doors leading out into the back yard, he pulled a rasp and a chisel out of his coat pocket and began working on the bolt on the door. With some effort, he made the lock appear to have been jimmied from the outside. Walking back inside, he stared at some of the paintings, trying to decide which ones to pull down next. He really wanted to take the Monet – it was certainly one of the most valuable paintings in the collection. But he knew the frame was fussy; if he took it down, it would take _forever_ to put it back up. It just wasn't worth the trouble. The Cassatt piece, on the other hand … 

Someone knocked on the front door. 

~~ End Chapter 2 ~~


	3. Setting the Stage

~~ Chapter 3 ~~ 

**Saturday Evening**

"I was starting to wonder about you," Brad Ellington said as he opened the front door. A petite young woman with curly brown hair stepped tentatively into the house. 

"I had to wait until no one could see me park my car," she replied in a high-pitched, girlish voice. "Are you sure we have to go through with all this?" she pleaded. 

"It's a little late to be worrying about that now, baby," he replied mockingly. He led her through the house into the music room, holding her arm tightly when she almost collapsed at the sight of the blanket-wrapped body. Realizing he needed to give her some encouragement, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She softened against him. 

"Christine, I know this is going to be hard for you, but I really need your help. Please don't let me down." 

She nodded in agreement and followed him to one of the occasional tables, which had two framed pencil sketches leaning against it. Brad removed the pictures from their frames and laid them on the table. He then walked over to a half-emptied packing crate and picked up some discarded brown paper and twine. 

"Why is that crate still here?" Christine asked. 

"It just came back from a traveling exhibit, and I hadn't finished unpacking it." Brad wrapped the two pictures securely with the brown paper. "I think that's everything. Now, you're sure you know what to do?" 

She nodded. "I'm sure." 

"Remember to fire into the air, all right?" He took her in his arms again and kissed her. His hands ran down along her back and rested on her hips. She responded by trying to pull him closer. He indulged her for a moment and then pushed away. 

"In a little while we'll have plenty of time and plenty of money to do whatever we want, baby. We just have to be a little patient until then." He grasped her shoulders to hold her in place. "Now remember, _don't_ call me! I'll contact you in a couple of days when it's safe." 

"But, baby …" she whined. 

He shook her gently. "I mean it! Once everything is set, I'll let you know. I promise!" He kissed her on the forehead and released her. "Now, I have to get going or I'll be late." 

Ellington walked out the door, locking it behind him. He had to hurry, or he would not make it to that tacky little gallery in time. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Once at the Frederickson Gallery attending a soiree for a supposedly up-and-coming new artist, Ellington played his usual role of irascible art critic to the delight of his social climbing hostess and gathered material for his next scathing review. He had to stop himself from checking his watch every few minutes; between his nervous tension and the boorish artist, it felt as if he had been there for _hours_ already. 

Christine also checked her watch frequently, waiting for the appointed time. She easily convinced herself that there was no need to wait in the same room as the body. She got up to pace several times, trying to keep from jumping out of her skin. Finally, it was 11:25 – time to get moving! 

Just knowing that the end of her work was in sight gave her the fortitude to go back into the music room and remove the electric blanket. She quickly refolded it, took it upstairs, and replaced it where Brad said it should go. She hurried back down and, telling herself that wasn't _really_ a dead body lying there, removed the garbage bag, folded it up without looking to see if there was any blood on it, grabbed the wrapped bundle of pictures, and dashed out of the room to stand by the jimmied back door. Now she had to wait again. 

After only a minute or so, Christine heard the sound she was waiting for: the security guard's patrol car. She heard him park his car, followed by the slam of his car door. Next, she heard him jiggle the locked front door. She pulled out the gun. As soon as she heard him open his car door, she went into action: she walked out the back door and fired one shot into the air. A few seconds later, she heard the guard's keys jingling at the front door. When she heard him open the door, she trotted out the back door and down the long flight of stone steps leading to the street below. The sound of her heels clicking against the stone seemed even louder than she had expected, but Brad had been insistent – she _had_ to wear some sort of heel so that the guard would know she left out the back way. Brad would not tell her why, but he was so smart, she was sure he had a good reason. 

By the time Christine reached the end of the steps, she was ready to scream! Between her heels and the uneven steps, she was unable to run down them; in addition, she could not turn to see if anyone was following her without stopping. Finally, she found herself on the street that ran behind the large houses where she had parked her car. Sighing in relief, she got in her car and looked back up the hill. The guard had turned on all the exterior floodlights, and in the distance she could hear the beginnings of sirens. She smirked at the confusion, started her little car, and drove away. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Alfred sighed as he drove the Jaguar up to the house where Jessica was staying. He _really_ did not want the date to end, and he was fairly certain Jessica felt that way as well. 

"I have enjoyed this evening so much!" she exclaimed as he turned into the driveway. 

Anything Alfred was going to say in reply was swallowed by his surprise at seeing a Gotham City police car in front of the house. 

Jessica gasped, "Oh my goodness! I wonder what has happened!" 

Alfred made quick work of parking the car, and he just managed to open Jessica's door for her before she walked purposefully toward the police car. Just as she reached it, the front door opened, and a fragile-looking woman about Jessica's age descended the steps accompanied by a uniformed police officer. Jessica met her at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Oh, Jessica!" cried the woman. "It's just too horrible!" 

"What's wrong, Janice?" 

"It's Monty! He's dead!" 

~~ End Chapter 3 ~~


	4. Sunday in the Park

~~ Chapter 4 ~~ 

**Sunday Afternoon**

"I wonder if your detectives find that whole 'killed during a burglary' scenario as suspicious as I do?" asked Jessica, seemingly out of nowhere. 

Alfred stopped unloading the picnic basket. "I beg your pardon?" 

She blushed slightly. "I'm sorry. I was just going over everything in my head and just blurted that out!" 

"No, that's all right; I was just a trifle disconcerted." Alfred finished placing everything on the blanket and began opening containers. He had originally invited Jessica out to lunch with him, but when he saw the beautiful sunny weather, he asked if she would care for a picnic lunch instead. Jessica had laughed delightedly and agreed. Gotham's city park was a fine backdrop, and he had hoped the surroundings might offset the unpleasantness of the previous evening. Obviously, he was mistaken. 

"So you don't think Mr. Taylor was killed by a burglar?" Alfred asked. Admittedly, he had his doubts as well based on the little he saw at the crime scene. Jessica had insisted on accompanying her friend, who happened to be the ex-wife of the deceased, and Alfred had felt it best to tag along discreetly. Once Taylor's nephew had arrived, Janice Taylor turned everything over to him, and they left. 

Jessica sighed and took a sip of her lemonade. "I suppose it's possible. I just can't get over some little details that stick out. For example: Monty's valet said that Monty _always_ set the burglar alarm before he went to bed, but the police said that the alarm company didn't show that it had been set. Surely, the burglar didn't just happen to pick the one night Monty forgot!" 

Alfred nodded; that bothered him as well. "I'll admit, I thought it odd that a man who was as security-conscious as Mr. Taylor would not only forget to set the alarm, but once he suspected an intruder, he did not try to notify the police." 

"Particularly when he would have to pass right by where the burglar presumably was in order to get to the study where Monty kept his gun." 

He arranged a chicken salad sandwich, several slices of celery, carrots, and a floret of broccoli on a plate and passed it to Jessica and then prepared a similar plate for himself. He smiled at the humming noises of pleasure she made as she bit into the fresh bread. 

"Oh, this is delicious!" 

"Thank you," he replied. "It's an old recipe of mine, but a favorite." He bit into his own sandwich. 

"Now, as I was saying before you attempted to distract me with food," she said with a smile, "another little thing that bothered me was the number of pictures that the thief was apparently going to steal." 

Alfred's mouth was full, but he raised his eyebrows enquiringly. 

"I counted around twenty pieces that the thief removed from the wall and set aside, some of which were rather massive. The thief supposedly came in through the back door and left the same way. Now remember, the security guard thinks it was a woman he saw running away. So we're supposed to believe she intended to carry all of those pictures down a long flight of stone steps. Even if she planned to make several trips, that just doesn't make sense!" 

He nodded. "That does sound rather bizarre. It seemed odd to me that the paintings the thief selected were not the most valuable in the collection, apart from the two pieces he – I mean, she – eventually stole. Also, speaking of the back door, I am quite familiar with that deadbolt, and it is extremely unlikely that it was forced open in the manner in which it was found." 

"Really?" 

"Yes. It's not so much that the lock cannot be forced, but doing so would create far more damage to the doorjamb than there was. It would have been much simpler for the thief to break the glass." 

"Hmm. So what we've got is a dead body and two missing Degas pencil sketches. I think it's safe to say the other art pieces are a smokescreen, as is the jimmied back door. The question I think we have to ask is which was the real objective – Monty's death or the Degas theft?" 

"I'm afraid I would have to guess that Mr. Taylor's death was the true objective," Alfred said, after a moment's consideration. 

"Why is that?" 

"First off, if the Degas were the objective, there was no need to pretend to steal the other pictures – they are certainly valuable enough just by themselves. Secondly, as soon as the thief saw that the alarm was not set, she would know that Taylor was still in the house and awake. There was no way she could have done all of the preparatory work without Taylor's noticing." 

"And that brings us back to Monty's not calling the police at the first hint that something was wrong." 

"Exactly. A real thief would also have waited until Taylor had retired for the evening." He removed the cover from a nearby plate. "Would you care for some apple pie?" 

~~~~~~~~~~

"According to Janice, Monty's nephew Brad will inherit everything," Jessica said. They had finished their picnic, and Alfred suggested they walk around the pond and feed their leftovers to the ducks. 

"That is certainly the rumor that I have heard as well. But if you are considering him as a suspect, he is not female, and he apparently has an excellent alibi for last night." 

She laughed. "Alfred! I'm in the mystery business, remember? Airtight alibis don't really bother me all that much." 

"But why the nephew?" 

"As I see it, he has the motive – his inheritance. I think it's obvious that Monty knew his killer, and it was someone who knew how valuable the Degas sketches were. All it takes to make it work is for Brad to have a female accomplice to set his alibi." 

"Why isn't this theoretical female accomplice the real murderer?" Alfred asked. 

"Because she wouldn't have the access to the house that Brad did," she replied confidently. 

"So how do we prove it?" 

Jessica started. "We? You'd really help me with this?" She blushed. "I'm just realizing I have monopolized our picnic with these theories of mine, and I'm sure you must think I'm crazy!" 

He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. "Of course not, Jessica! I certainly understand that you would wish to help your friend, and I will admit it's a fascinating intellectual puzzle. I am certainly willing to offer whatever help I can." He offered her his arm. 

She smiled back and hooked her arm through his. "Thank you! You seem to be making a habit of coming to my rescue!" 

For the next few minutes, they walked without speaking. Alfred led them to a bench beside the pond where they could feed the ducks. After he sat down, he said, "So what's our next step?" 

Jessica thought for a moment and said, "Well, I would really like to check out Brad's alibi, but I don't know exactly what it was." 

"Hmm. Let me try something." Alfred took his cell phone and dialed a familiar number. "Miss Barbara? I wonder if you could check something for me?" 

~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey, it's me." 

"Oh, Brad! I was getting so worried!" 

"Everything's okay, baby. The police have checked my alibi, and I'm definitely in the clear." 

"But why wouldn't you answer your phone?" 

"I told you not to call me! They put a tap on my phone in case anyone tries to ransom the sketches. I'm calling you from a pay phone." 

"When can I see you? I miss you so much!" 

"Well, all right. You remember that spot we went to last week in Gotham Heights?" 

"That overlook way up in the cliffs?" 

"That's the one. Meet me there in an hour and bring the sketches; I'll take them off your hands, while I'm at it." 

"All right. I love you!" 

"Me too, baby." 

~~ End Chapter 4 ~~


End file.
